Cocoon
by karry4harry
Summary: A story about feeling trapped, wanting to break free, wake up and fly away to a new life. Sometimes there is a person out there who can help us transform for the better and lead us to discover that there is life after death. All Human. E/B
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer. I just make her characters do my bidding.**

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**Chapter 1**

"_You need to get away,"_ they'd said. _"You need to learn to live again. You need to revive yourself."_

Even now, with their voices on continual replay in my head, and safely ensconced behind a large suitcase on the other side of the Atlantic, I still didn't _want_ to believe them. But, even with my apprehensions, something within me had listened to them all – Angela, Ben, Mom and Dad – something within me had recognised that they were right - recognised an escape - despite how much I still wanted to believe that they were wrong.

"Long flight?"

I sat up straighter, startled by the voice directed my way, and met the crisp blue eyes of a not-so-unattractive man, earnestly waiting for a response. My brow furrowed automatically.

The man chuckled to himself and simultaneously unbuttoned his suit jacket and loosened the tie around his neck.

"Yes, I am talking to you," he said in a clear and precise British accent, before pointing to a sign. "You can respond, you know. This isn't one of those "silent carriages"." Sure enough there was a sign directing you to Carriage 1 if you wished for silence.

"Silent carriages?" I queried more to myself and his eyes seemed to widen.

"Ah – so you flew in from America? That would answer my first question." When I didn't respond immediately, he added, lowering his head, as if trying to prompt me, "You know . . . _long flight_?"

_Maybe you should have gotten on Carriage 1._

Why was this guy so eager to talk with me? Whatever his motives, I took in his keen expression, surrounded by almost a halo of his neatly cut and styled blonde hair and decided that there was no way that I could get out of conversing with him without creating an awkward situation.

_What the heck?_ I shrugged internally and fought my lethargy, deciding to appear friendly – deciding to follow _their _advice to try and _revive_ the old me.

"Oh, yeah . . . it was, I guess." I swallowed back the dryness in my throat, before progressing the conversation. "So . . . silent carriages . . ."

"Yes. They're relatively new. Apparently there are guards that patrol them saying, "Silence! I kill you!"

I found myself unable to suppress a small grin.

"Achmed the Dead Terrorist works for the Heathrow Express, does he? I'm not sure that would go down well."

He smiled.

"I was hoping that you'd get the reference." He paused and studied me for a moment, before he extended his hand. "I'm Michael."

Taking a quick glance around the carriage and noticing many other occupants, I managed to overcome my initial reluctance to meet his hand.

"Isabella."

"What brings you to London, Isabella? Work or leisure?"

"A change of scenery," I said, somewhat reticently, cautious to not give away too much information. "Which will probably involve some work and some leisure. Do you work in London?" I tried to divert the conversation away from myself. Michael readily answered and I was confronted with how confident he was in his own skin.

"Yes. Visited my sister in Dublin over the weekend. Got an early flight back this morning and now I'm headed into work. No rest for the wicked."

"And are you in a _wicked_ profession?" I continued, my curiosity piqued.

Michael laughed.

"Some might call it that – I'm a finance paralegal."

"Oh."

""Oh" is right. It's not the most exciting work, but I at least enjoy it. And you – what interesting line of work are you in?"

I bit down on my lip and ran a hand through what I could only assume was now like a nest on top of my head – my once smooth, straightened hair. The action gave me enough time to decide that it was okay to lift my guard somewhat and be honest.

"I . . . I worked in law, too, actually."

"_Worked in_?" he questioned. "Did you have enough of it then?"

"Something like that," I answered, just as an announcement reverberated around the carriage, notifying everyone that we were approaching Paddington Station.

Michael reached into his suit jacket and, before I knew it, held out a business card to me.

"It's been nice talking with you, Isabella. If you need help finding your way around this place or settling in, just give me a call. You know where you're headed from here?" He asked as I dropped his card into my handbag.

"Umm . . . yeah. Yeah, I do." I didn't want to give him any means to stalk me, even though my instincts told me that he was simply being friendly. My Dad – a Police Chief - had engrained in me an instinct to play it safe.

"Well, then, I've got to dash," he said, as we moved towards the opening door. To my surprise, he picked up my suitcase and placed it on the platform, before I could protest.

"Thanks, Michael."

"Not a worry. Nice meeting you, Isabella."

I watched him swing his leather satchel over his shoulder and quickly manoeuvre his way through the myriads of people.

_In my twenty six years on this earth, had I ever been that comfortable – that content?_ Memories flickering through my mind told me that the answer to my question was "yes".

Once again, _their_ words resounded in my ears as if they were standing right next to me.

"_You need to get away. . . You need to learn to live again. . . You need to revive yourself."_

"You need to try," I said to myself, taking a deep breath of London air, before hiking my carry-on bag up my shoulder and grasping the handle of my suitcase. "Let's roll," I said, pulling it along, which earned me a raised eyebrow from a balding business man, who I followed through, what might have otherwise been, an impossible-to-navigate cluster of people. Thankfully, he led me towards the taxi rank.

"Where to, miss?" The driver asked, as I placed my luggage and then myself into a rather roomy seating area. Fumbling my way through my bag, I pulled out my phone and found the address that Angela had given me.

"Westgate Terrace, Chelsea, please."

With a nod of his head, the driver moved into the line of cars and wordlessly gave me a tour of London. While I caught glimpses of famous landmarks, my heavy eyes often closed and I found myself preparing for the inevitable meeting with my host, replaying the conversation I'd had with Angela, her cousin.

-()-()-()-

"I got you the caramel latte."

"Thanks," I said taking a sip of it as Angela sat down in her traditional spot on the couch beside me and pulled out the pencil that she'd left in her hair.

"Just think, in a month I won't have my coffee buddy anymore."

I shook my head.

"I'm not going, Ang. We've been through this a—"

"-a million times and you, the wonderful attorney that you are, are still yet to present an argument that convinces me that you shouldn't go!"

I looked into my best friend's eyes and saw the steadfast expression that I'd become accustomed to the past twelve years. I ran a fingertip along the rim of my mug.

"Marcus won't let me go," I stated, thinking that my boss would recognise my value to his firm all too well.

Angela folded her arms across her chest and turned to face me.

"That's bullshit! I spoke with Marcus and he is willing to give you a year sabbatical."

"So now you're all talking about me behind my back?! Making decisions for me -"

Angela put a stop to my rant.

"Shut up, Swan and listen! We're all just . . . worried about you." She paused to soften her tone. "You need to find that part of yourself that . . . that _he_ took with him."

My jaw shook with the effort I made to try and keep my emotions in check, but I couldn't prevent the tears welling in my eyes. I was broken.

"Bella, you need to go. My cousin, she's a musician and, if you can put up with her and her "muso" tendencies, she has a spare bedroom with your name on it." I felt her hand encase mine. "All you have to do is say yes."

I stared at the streams of caramel sinking beneath the foam of my latte.

Angela squeezed my hand and I met her eyes - her eyes that implored me to give her an answer. I did.

"Yes."

-()-()-()-

Chelsea was further from Paddington than I thought. Fortunately, though, I'd exchanged enough cash to pay the cab driver. When the cab drove away, I examined the length of the street before finally settling my eyes on the building in front of me.

_This cousin of yours lives in a good part of town, Ang._

Audis, Mercedes and BMWs lined the street and whitewashed, four storey buildings lined the roads like the Brownstones I'd become familiar with near Harvard, in Cambridge.

Taking a deep breath, I looked, once again, at the address in my cell, lifted my suitcase up the stairs and searched the side of the door for the apartment in question. It wasn't difficult to spot the name _Rosalie Hale_ written in elegant script beside a polished buzzer.

"Hello," the cool, English, feminine voice, almost sang from the small speaker.

"Uh . . . Hi, Rosalie? I'm Angela's frie-"

"Oh! Bella Swan!" She said over a muffled noise in the background. "Door's open. Come on up!"

As I dragged myself and my baggage into the hallway, I looked at a beautiful set of balustrades and froze. Never had the task of climbing a flight of stairs seemed so daunting.

_It's the climb_. . .

Miley Cyrus' one good piece of advice fuelled my muscles, as I bent my legs, picked up my suitcase with both hands and managed to waddle my way up to the first floor of the building. My earlier hesitancy disappeared as I was greeted by an open door. Sighing, I moved over the threshold.

"Oh, Lord! I'd have helped you with your suitcase if I'd known how big it was."

My eyes snapped up to meet the person who owned the voice.

Rosalie Hale looked nothing like her cousin. While Angela had straight, almost black, brown hair, angular features and a lean, straight figure, Rosalie had waved, golden hair, pulled back into a messy bun, and soft curvy features, reminiscent of old Hollywood glamour or one of those women drawn on Jane Austen book covers. I knew that Angela's outer beauty was a reflection of what lay beneath her exterior. I could only hope that there was a beauty to Rosalie as true as the endearing cornflower blue of her eyes.

"You must be exhausted!" She exclaimed, taking charge of the handle of my suitcase and ushering me forward into a light and classically chic, white, beige, light green and pink sitting area, which was well situated next to an off-white kitchen. The rubber soles of my Chucks squeaked against the timber floor as I was guided to sit down on the soft sofa.

Rosalie smiled at me and I felt myself truly begin to relax when I noticed a pencil tucked in her hair near her bun. It seemed that she and Angela did have something in common.

"I'd just put the kettle on when you buzzed me. Would you like a cup of tea?"

It was easy to say "Yes" to that question.

With Rosalie's back to me, as she moved to prepare the tea, I was able to take in the finer details of the room. It had the typical coffee table, flat screen TV, family photos and iPod dock, but it also had an almost warded off section that I realised showcased an essential component of Rosalie's identity – her music. A very expensive looking cello was resting on its side, a bow hung over the edge of a music stand and a pile of old and new music books sat near the legs of an armless chair.

_So, she's a classical musician. Thank God she's not in a death metal band!_

"Is this your first time in London?"

I moved my attention back to Rosalie in the kitchen.

"Yes," I said, before realising that I should probably elaborate and show her that I did actually have an extensive vocabulary. "This is my first time out of the United States."

Rosalie looked up at my admission and left the kitchen carrying a plate of what appeared to be cookies.

"Really? It takes a lot of courage to travel to a foreign place on your own, even when you've travelled before." She held the plate out to me. I took something that looked like and oatmeal cookie covered in chocolate and nodded in thanks.

"Oh, I've travelled before and I've lived away from home when I went to College," I replied, as she returned to the kitchen. The look she gave me as she took out two attractive white mugs made me want to share more. "But, yes, this is . . . different."

She seemed to consider me for a moment and I had a feeling that Angela had told her some things, but not _everything_.

"Hmmm . . . milk, sugar?"

"Just milk, please." I gave my practised response, suppressing the memories it tried to bring to the surface by trying to steer the conversation in a new direction – a direction that would also help me learn about my host. "So, you're a professional cellist?"

She smiled at me, before picking up the two cups and moving to place them on the coffee table in front of me.

"Yes – you know you should try dunking your biscuit in your tea," she added, indicating to the biscuit, who's chocolate had started melting against my fingers, before sitting beside me.

_Biscuit? Is that what they call cookies here?_

I did as she said and was quite pleased with the result when I tasted it.

"It's good, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"Do you play in an orchestra? Teach?"

"All of the above," she grinned, then took a sip of her tea. "Angela told me that you work for the same law firm."

Rosalie seemed to be keen to steer the conversation back towards me.

"Not for the next year," I answered, a hint of bitterness entering my tone.

"Angela's quite persuasive, isn't she?"

I'd known the woman barely ten minutes and she'd already begun to read me like a book. Perhaps Angela had told her more than I'd thought.

"You could say that," I said after a slight hesitation.

Rosalie offered a knowing grin over the rim of her mug.

"She tells me that you're quite the lawyer."

I scoffed.

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Why?"

I placed my mug on the table and ran a hand through my hair, considering how much to give away. I could tell that Rosalie was carefully trying to chip away at my shield.

"Well, I recently provided a poor defence for the "Let Bella stay in Seattle" case."

Melodious laughter affirmed that Rosalie was a musician. She placed her mug on the table next to mine and glanced at the clock, before meeting my eyes, seemingly intent on conveying a message.

"Perhaps you need to start thinking of this as a getaway, rather than a _get away_."

The heaviness in my chest descended to my stomach and I felt my jaw tense as I tried to contain my emotions.

Rosalie seemed pleased with herself as she stood and took her mug to the kitchen sink.

"I'm afraid that I have go away for a bit, Bella. I've got a rehearsal from four till six. It might give you some time to rest, have a shower . . ."

I swallowed, trying to regain my voice.

"Mhmm."

Rosalie continued talking as she moved to place her cello in a large, blue, hard case.

"Make yourself at home, okay? There's plenty of food in the pantry and fridge. If you follow me, I'll quickly show you your room and the bathroom."

The theme of the lounge area was easily carried through to the bedroom. My room was small, but neat, immaculate and welcoming. I thanked Rosalie as she left me alone in her apartment without showing an inch of concern, and, for the second time that day, I found myself confronted. Rosalie's trust in me – someone who she barely knew – but, more essentially, her faith in her cousin's judgement, made my total lack of trust all the more obvious to myself. I mulled over this as I washed off the aches and grime of my travels in the amazing rain head shower. It didn't take long for my own tears to meld with the droplets from the shower, mourning the person who I used to be.

_He took a piece of you with him. You need to get it back._

My shower finished, I entered my room with a new resolution. Quickly finding my cell phone, I perched myself on the edge of the bed and tentatively found _his_ number. After a few shaky breaths, and with some even shakier hand movements, I initiated the call and held my breath waiting for an answer. I got a message.

"_Hey, this is Jacob Black. I'm tied up with something right now, but leave your name and phone number and I promise that I'll get back to you . . ."_

I didn't wait for the beep. I ended it.

_You were always shit at keeping promises . . ._

Sliding under the covers, angry at myself for making a call that I knew he wouldn't answer, I wasn't surprised when tears traced salty paths down my cheeks. My chest tightening, I gasped for air as I cocooned myself deeper beneath the sheets, hoping that, by some miracle, I might one day be able to wake up, break free and fly away to a new life.

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**A/N: This is something that popped into my head the other day and I had to get it down. I'm keen to continue it, but only if people are intrigued. Would appreciate knowing what you think. Karry.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The hauntingly beautiful music that had abruptly sounded like an alarm continued to act as my soundtrack as I moved through the necessary evils of making myself presentable for the world. After washing off the remnants of my tears, taming my hair, putting on some natural looking makeup and donning a pair of denim skinny jeans and a light, mulberry sweater, I made my way towards the sitting area, careful to minimise the sound of my bare feet hitting the floorboards, not wanting to disturb the source of the music. I knew the tune, even though I'd never heard it before. It spoke of confusion, pain, anger and loss, but even I had to recognise the sustaining murmur of hope that carried the music forward - that was carrying me forward.

"Shit!" Rosalie gasped as she swayed with her instrument and finally opened her eyes to glance at the music in front of her. With my presence now known, and the music coming to an abrupt end, I took apologetic steps towards Rosalie, whose left hand rested against her chest, seemingly trying to anchor her breathing.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," I rushed.

She shook her and careful moved to place the bow, which she held in her right hand, on the ledge of her music stand.

"It's okay, Bella. I just got lost in the music and momentarily forgot that anyone else was here," she breathed, her voice growing stronger the more she composed herself. I was shocked to see her startle again. "I woke you up, didn't I?"

I felt the need to put her at ease.

"Well . . . yeah, but that doesn't mean that the musical wakeup call was unwelcome." I felt the urge to offer a tinge of a smile, as I noticed the natural light in the room. "I'm sure I slept long enough anyway."

Rosalie's expression brightened, but underpinning guilt still pervaded her tone.

"I didn't want to wake you, but I did need to practise and this is the best time for it -"

"What time is it?"

I followed her line of sight to a clock hanging on the far wall and was shocked to see that it was already one in the afternoon.

"I always try and practise in the middle of the day, when most of my neighbours are at work." Rosalie recaptured my notice.

"You mean, they complain about hearing you play?! It's beautiful."

She smiled, but began fiddling with a loose strand of blonde hair almost as if to shy away from my compliment.

"I'm glad that you think so. Most of my neighbours do too. Some of them even push little notes under my door with particular requests," she chuckled. "They're cute in that way." Her tone of voice mirrored her change of expression. "But . . . there are some who just don't appreciate music of . . . of . . ."

"Quality," I said, assuredly, when she couldn't find the right word.

She seemed rather pleased with my choice.

"Exactly!"

She grinned, confidently retrieved her bow and began playing again, watching my response.

As I studied how Rosalie played with such confidence and assurance, and considered our recent interactions, it became obvious to me that she was, for want of better terms, _humbly arrogant._ Mulling over that thought, as she continued to produce stunning cries from the instrument, I decided that I liked that about her.

_Did I want that too – to be humbly arrogant?_

With a flourish, Rosalie welcomed silence back into the room, stood up and managed to place her cello and bow in its case with well-practised poise. As she walked past me, encouraging me to follow her into the kitchen, I noticed that she was rather professionally attired – with black fitted pants and a flouncy black top.

_Did she have to work today?_

"What would you like to eat? If I'm hungry, I can't imagine how starved you are!"

My ears did prick up at the sound of food.

"What have you got?"

As we started making ham and salad sandwiches, Rosalie seemed happy to let me ask the questions.

"Are you working today?"

"Yes. I've got to see a student at four." She seemed to consider something as she sliced a cucumber. "You know, we could head out after this and get you acquainted with the Tube. I could show you around, point you towards a few good spots and then you could meet me outside my students' house at five. It might be dark by then, but they live in a rather posh area. What do you think?"

I bit down on my lip. Rosalie's offer was kind, but I didn't want to be a burden.

"I don't want you to be dragging your cello all over town on my account."

Rosalie dropped her knife and smiled as she placed cucumber on half of my soon to be sandwich.

"Oh, I don't have to take Elgar with me when I teach."

"Elgar?"

She intimated to her cello case.

_She named the cello?!_

Rosalie leaned in with a cheeky glint in her eyes when she saw realisation dawn in my expression.

"I've got to have at least one man to hold and play with."

I pushed back the memories of Jake holding me and tried to forget the hold he still had on me. She must have sensed my discomfort, because Rosalie didn't allow for too long a pause in the conversation.

I couldn't suppress my amusement when she added, "The great thing with Elgar is that he has a G-string that I can pluck any time I want." The sound of my own laughter was almost foreign to me, but was warmly welcomed by Rosalie. She winked and began slicing a tomato, but soon turned back to me to clarify something. "You do know that cellos have an A, D, G and C string, right?"

"I can't say that I did," I admitted, amusement still evident in my tone. "But I certainly do now."

"Good." Finishing our sandwiches, she slid a plate my way. "You know, you should smile more often, Bella."

This time it was me who shirked a compliment, quickly occupying myself with the task of consuming my sandwich.

-()-()-()-

Under Rosalie's tutelage I soon learned the value of an Oyster Card and that Earl's Court was the most useful Tube station in the vicinity. We took the District Line to Westminster and, if I thought that Angela was persuasive, I soon discovered that Rosalie was even more so. She practically forced me to stay still so that she could take a photo of me in front of Big Ben and Westminster Cathedral, using her iPhone.

"Angela has to see that I'm being the consummate hostess," she'd maintained when I'd protested. "You don't want me to get in trouble, do you?"

I couldn't argue with her reasoning and so I let her take a photo of me at St James' Park Station and then in front of Buckingham Palace, as well.

Convinced that she'd at least showed me enough of London to have piqued my enthusiasm for my stay, Rosalie sighed and told me that she now had to head to her students'. Not bothered to walk, she took us on the District Line to South Kensington and then on the Piccadilly Line to Knightsbridge. My first glimpse of Hyde Park, across the road, convinced me that the old me would easily have been able to spend hours in it searching for the perfect photo. Yes, the old me would have lugged Jacob along with me and made him pose for me. The new me, well . . . the new me wasn't willing to revisit those moments yet.

Rosalie and I moved away from Hyde Park off the main road and into streets that she had most aptly described as posh.

"Welcome to Knightsbridge! Harrods is just up there. We're going to avoid that busy area, though." We kept walking along streets lined with fancier homes than what I'd observed along Rosalie's street. These surely would have had to have been home to the gentry described in Austen's novels. Rosalie must have noticed my preoccupation with the houses.

"No matter how many cello lessons I give to students in this area, I will never be able to afford a place here."

"Your place is lovely, though."

"Oh, I love my place. I'm lucky to even have that – it was a fortunate inheritance from one of Dad's aunts. But, even you can't deny, there's something compelling about these homes." She directed me to take a right.

While their facades were attractive, I couldn't help but wonder if the lifestyles of those living behind them were anything to desire.

"Are the people living in the homes compelling, too?"

Rosalie dropped her large, black leather handbag, from her shoulder and looked at me as if she wanted to share something. It looked as if she started to say something, before thinking better of it and, instead, began to unzip her bag.

"Somewhat."

She handed me a map that she'd kept hidden and opened it up, pointing to where we were currently, just off Sloane Street and directed me to the main street that I might like to explore. After making sure that I knew where we were, she encouraged me to walk past a few more doors, before she stopped and turned to the home that I knew housed her student.

A shiny black door, with a golden knocker, stood a few steps from the street. I moved my eyes from it to the large expanse of reddish-brown bricks and then white floors above with black overlays, which created an almost Tudor look. This was some house and I was intrigued to see what lay beyond the rather imposing door.

"Meet me back here at five?" Rosalie clarified, forcing me to look away from the building.

"Sure," I nodded, fidgeting with the map and folding it a new way, before I heading in the direction of Harrods. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw Rosalie standing at the front door and waiting for admittance, but I didn't hang about to watch her go inside. I told myself that I needed to detach myself from the intrigue of the house and its occupants. I didn't need to find out about either of them. I needed to find myself.

-()-()-()-

After thirty wonderful minutes sampling different delights in Harrods' Food Hall, and picking out a box of chocolates as a thank you to Rosalie, I'd had far too much of the crowds and decided to give myself plenty of time to make my way back to the meeting point.

I made it there with twenty minutes to spare.

Preventing myself from simply gawking at the house, I took my phone out of my small, cross body bag and sent a quick text message to Angela and to Mom letting them know that I was all right. Unfortunately, that only killed two minutes and I was left to feel the presence of the building at my back, almost staring at me over my shoulder and daring me to turn around. I caved.

It didn't take me long to begin wondering what the walls of the building would say if they could talk.

"Can I help you?"

I almost let out a profanity, as I swiftly turned in the direction of the voice.

The man to my left must have been nearly six feet tall. He was dressed to the nines in a neat, grey business suit that matched his peppered hair and a steel grey and black striped tie stood out against his white shirt. Glasses framed his captivating green eyes and I felt their full force as he gripped his briefcase tighter and examined me, seemingly not used to waiting for an answer.

"I'm . . . ah . . . I'm waiting for my friend. She said to meet her here at five."

His expression seemed to soften.

"You're friends with Rosalie?"

"Yes. She's apparently giving a cello lesson," I answered, the lawyer in me providing him with evidence to suggest that I did actually know who he was referring to.

He appeared to find some amusement in my response.

"I hope that she _is_, otherwise the money that I'm paying her is going to waste. She is meant to be teaching my daughter, you see."

I swallowed, wondering if I'd damaged Rosalie's reputation.

"I'm sure that Rosalie is doing a fine job, sir."

He smiled endearingly.

"I would have to agree with you, Miss . . .?"

"Isabella Swan." I met his outstretched hand and was greeted by a firm handshake.

"Carlisle Cullen."

Such an old fashioned name seemed to suit the man and the house.

"Well, Isabella, might I suggest you come and wait inside for your friend? She often loses track of the time and spends more than an hour here. You could be left out here in the dark."

_It wouldn't be the first time. _

Thinking over my own safety and cautious not to overstep my bounds, I didn't respond immediately to accept his offer. But, something in his eyes did make me accept, and I was reminded of Rosalie's earlier remark about the compelling nature of the homes and their occupants.

"Thank you, sir. I'd appreciate that."

Indicating that I should follow him up the stairs to the large black door, I began to doubt my receipt of his offer when he turned to me and started talking about conditions of entry.

"One of the conditions of entry, Isabella, is that you can no longer refer to me as "Sir". Her Majesty hasn't knighted me," he said in mock seriousness, which immediately put me at ease and encouraged a smile to raise my cheeks.

"Yet," I quipped, as a beige, airy, vacant hallway was revealed to me.

Carlisle looked back at me, seemingly gratified by my answer, before encouraging me to follow him down the immaculate hall, past a large staircase and into a kitchen that led into, what appeared to be, a more lived in conservatory. The soft tones of a cello could be heard emanating from somewhere in the house.

_How big is this place?_

As he seemed to search for something, my mind ran through the possible careers that Carlisle could have in order to allow him and his family to live in such a palatial space.

_Had he inherited this?_

"Ah, Carmen, there you are!"

Carlisle's voice pulled me out of my musings and encouraged me to turn and meet the inquisitive brown eyes of a middle aged woman, with olive skin, short, cloudlike black hair and lips covered in a deep red-pink lipstick. She wore black pants and a buttoned, black shirt with an oriental style collar.

"Sorry, Mr. Carlisle. I was in the laundry," she answered in an accent that was a blend of Spanish and English, before raising an eyebrow and focusing in on me. "You have a guest?"

"This is Rosalie's friend, Isabella, Carmen. I thought that we could offer her a more comfortable place to wait, rather than the footpath outside."

Carmen moved towards the kitchen with enthusiasm.

"Of course, Mr. Carlisle! Miss Isabella, would you like some tea or coffee?"

I moved forward a bit unsurely.

"Thank you, but I don't want to be any trouble. I'm . . . I'm happy to just wait . . ."

I stopped when I was met by Carmen's glare.

There was a smile in Carlisle's voice. "Carmen won't take no for an answer and, in this case, neither will I."

Feeling unnerved by the many pairs of eyes on me, I gave an honest response.

"A coffee would be nice, thank you."

Carmen smiled and nodded her head in my direction before busying herself with the coffee making process.

"Shall we sit down?" Carlisle offered, guiding me to a seat on a rather pillowy sofa in the conservatory. In front of it sat a coffee table and my eyes searched for clues that I could use to paint a portrait of Carlisle Cullens' family. There were a number of interior decorating magazines and books organised in a neat pile off to the side of the table, but it was rather obvious that the table had recently been used to complete some Math, Science and English homework. As I stood over the open books prior to taking my seat, it became clear - from the scratched out workings on the page - that the person was nowhere near to completing the work. They were struggling.

"My daughter's homework," Carlisle confirmed, seemingly noticing my interest. "The concepts appeared to be understandable when I was at school, but they all look so foreign to me now." He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief that he pulled from the breast pocket inside his jacket. "Even with a clear lens." He replaced his glasses and encouraged me to speak. "Can you make heads or tails of it?"

With his imploring green eyes magnified by the angle of his glasses, I was kind of hypnotised into answering sincerely.

"Yes. I took some Math and Science courses to fulfil my General Education requirements."

Thoughts were immediately visible behind Carlisle's eyes.

"Truly?" I nodded, which persuaded Carlisle to continue. "What field did you complete your studies in?"

No apprehension held me back from responding.

"I concentrated in English, as an undergraduate, but then attended Law School."

"At which universities?"

"Just one college, actually - Harvard."

Carlisle seemed somewhat astonished and looked at me peculiarly. I must have been unable to prevent a questioning expression from forming on my face.

"Forgive me, Isabella. I am simply impressed."

Carmen came in then with a tray holding pastries, mugs, milk, sugar and a pot of coffee and, after Carlisle moved his daughter's homework to the side, placed it on the table.

"Thank you, Carmen. Please, join us. I know you like your coffee."

Carmen didn't protest, but responded with an understanding smile. "Very well, señor."

When Carmen returned from the kitchen with a mug for herself, she put an end to an awkward silence that had descended as Carlisle turned inward, keeping to his thoughts, and asked me how I took my coffee.

Before I had a chance to answer, a delicate, wistful voice came from behind me.

"Black."

All of us in the conservatory were quite startled and immediately twisted to face the source of the voice. The girl who stood in front of Rosalie had a presence that went beyond her small frame. She was a slight thing with smooth, pearlescent skin, hazel eyes and long, ebony hair braided away from her face. She reminded me of a porcelain doll that I'd had as a child. She stared at me just as unwaveringly and with a look that seemed to say that she longed to break free and move – that she didn't want to be forever stuck in the same position, hiding her true self away, simply observing the world change around her.

"Alice," her father said, approaching her quickly. His voice that had been so smooth before now seemed to hold a quiver and a tone of desperation. I looked to Rosalie and her face, too, was fixed on the teenage girl, as if her speaking had been the strangest thing in the world.

All I could think of, as my thoughts replayed what I'd heard her say, was that I didn't take my coffee black.

I felt the girls' eyes on me immediately and, when I looked directly into them, the pieces started connecting together. My breathing quickened and my stomach turned when I realised that what she'd said had nothing to do with the coffee.

_You misheard her. She couldn't know. _

I snapped my eyes away and watched the crystals of a sugar cube go in and out of focus, while my ears filled with the sound of my pounding heart.

_Jacob . . ._

"Miss Alice, come and meet Miss Rosalie's friend."

Carmen's voice seemed to act like a sedative and draw me back to the present. I glanced back up to see her place a mug of black coffee on a coaster in front of me. Her eyes lingered on me and I could tell that she was silently trying to confirm the accuracy of Alice's comment. I decided to be brave and reached for the milk. Instead of dismissing me straight away, I was unnerved to find Carmen look upon me with sympathy, but I pushed this to the back of my mind as Carlisle and Rosalie approached me with Alice.

Impulsively, I stood.

"Isabella, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Alice. Alice, this is Isabella Swan."

"It's nice to meet you, Alice."

I gave her a practised smile and she bobbed her head in acknowledgement, but didn't say a word.

"How long have you played the cello?" I asked, trying to prompt her into conversation. But her silence lingered and made me recall times I'd had to deal with hostile witnesses.

"Three years," Carlisle answered for her. "Rosalie has been giving her lessons for over a year now and she has improved immensely."

"She has," Rosalie reinforced.

"Might I speak with you for a moment, Rosalie?"

Seemingly perplexed, Rosalie acquiesced with Carlisle's wish.

Carlisle gestured for me to sit down and I hastily did so, after reaching for my coffee and sensing Carmen move to the kitchen.

"Please excuse us for a moment."

As Carlisle led Rosalie down the hall, I realised that Alice still remained in the room standing painfully still. When she moved to sit down, her eyes followed me like the eyes of the Mona Lisa. Taking a good drink, I returned the mug to the coaster and was reminded of the items on the coffee table. Piecing together the evidence, I began to suspect that Carlisle's departure with Rosalie had been a strategic manoeuvre.

Tentatively, I reached for the math worksheet, which lay on top of the pile and sought out a pen.

"May I?" I asked, diverting my eyes away from the page of equations, which I knew how to solve, to the girl who still appeared to be an unsolvable puzzle. She approached me carefully like a mouse scurrying across the room to get closer to a tantalising piece of cheese – only, she recognised that there was a chance that the cheese could be attached to a trap. I knew that she'd decided to go for the cheese when she sat down beside me and gave a pronounced nod.

I tried to offer a reassuring smile as I twirled the pen in my fingers and then pointed to the first question.

"Fractions in algebraic equations can be a real pain, can't they?"

She blinked. I continued.

"Watch how I was taught to get rid of the denominator."

I proceeded to write down the first step to solving the equation and then sat back to observe Alice as her eyes scanned what I'd written. I was surprised to feel a flutter in my chest as understanding enlivened her previously stoic expression.

"Get it?"

She snapped her head up at my question and nearly rendered me speechless when her lips turned up slightly and she nodded enthusiastically.

Encouraged, I went on to explain the method until reaching the final answer, pausing at each step to make sure that I was making sense to my unexpected student.

"Now you have to try," I said, holding out the pen in front of me.

She moved her hand to accept it, but soon retracted it. After some contemplation, I decided to place the pen on the page and take an interest in consuming my coffee. I was reminded that we weren't alone when something moved to my right. Peering up over the rim of my mug, I saw Carmen peeling potatoes over the sink. She must have felt my eyes on her, for she soon looked up and smiled at me with clear gratefulness. I was certainly grateful that my mug was empty when a few taps on my shoulder caused me to jump in my seat.

Regaining my composure, I quickly turned in my seat to face an apparently anxious Alice, holding her left fist against her mouth.

I had no intention of being cruel and making her wait. I leant forward and examined her work and, at the same time, admired her neat and attractive handwriting. A certain amount of relief flowed through me as I discerned that her solution was correct and free of any error. I picked up the pen and made a show of ticking her work.

"Well done," I grinned.

"Thank you," she breathed. I froze.

Not knowing how to respond to the numerous emotions amassing in my chest, I handed the pen back to her.

"You're welcome."

A throat clearing behind us alerted us to the return of Carlisle and Rosalie. Meeting their eyes, I could tell that it was time to go.

"Don't give up, Alice," I said, placing my mug on the tray and moving towards Carlisle and Rosalie, who were discussing something in murmured tones. Before I got too far away, I was held back by a hand grasping my own. I peered over my shoulder.

"He keeps his promises," Alice whispered, before releasing my hand and picking up the pen to continue with the questions.

_What does she mean?_

As I stared at her and contemplated her words, I was left with the uncanny suspicion that she knew too much, and that I did know what she meant, but I wasn't willing to confront it yet.

I made my way to Rosalie and Carlisle in a daze, trying to force myself to think of other things besides Alice's words. They fell into step with me and we walked in silence towards the front door.

"I can't thank you enough for what you did today, Isabella," Carlisle spoke, genuinely and in a slightly hoarse voice. "Is it too much to ask to meet with you tomorrow at the same time?"

My breathing hitched upon hearing such an unanticipated request. I looked to Rosalie and I could tell from her expression that she was willing me to agree and come back tomorrow.

_There is definitely something compelling about this home. _

"It's not too much to ask," I managed to say. "I can meet with you tomorrow."

Carlisle beamed with what I could only assume was hope, before shaking my hand.

"Thank you. I shall look forward to it," he said gently, opening the door and seeing us safely onto the now unnaturally lit footpath. "Safe travels ladies." With that he closed the door and I quickly turned to Rosalie begging her with my eyes to please explain. We walked in silence, myself embracing the evening air hitting my face, until the house was out of sight. Then the floodgates opened.

"She's been a selective mute as long as I've known her, Bella. She probably spoke more words to you today than she's ever spoken to me. We communicate through nods and a notebook," she admitted, swiftly. "And, of course, through music."

I exhaled as we came to a stop at a curb.

"I would have told you had I known that you'd be invited inside," she continued, frantically.

I tried to exude a semblance of calm, as I faced her and responded.

"I'm not blaming you for anything, Rosalie. I was just . . . unnerved by it all."

She seemed to accept that and we continued our route towards the Tube station.

"That family has been through something, haven't they?"

Rosalie nodded. "I think so." She paused and I could tell that she wanted to share her concerns. "In all the rooms that I've been in, there's no family photographs."

I thought back to the rooms that I'd visited and realised that she had a point.

"Maybe they keep them away from the reception rooms? Lord knows they have five or six floors to display them," she added as an afterthought. "Tell me if you see any tomorrow."

"You're not coming with me?"

She shook her head.

"I have rehearsal from four until six."

"Did Carlisle tell you why he wants to meet with me?" I queried.

"Not exactly," she answered rather evasively. "But I'm sure your presumptions mirror my own."

The sound of our footfalls were our companions until I verbalised my thoughts.

"I helped her . . ."

Rosalie looked at me and smiled thoughtfully. "Yes, you helped her . . . but maybe she can also help you."

Taking out her Oyster Card, Rosalie moved through the barriers and left me to my thoughts.

_Why had I helped her?_

The answer came to me as the gates opened to let me pass.

I'd helped her because I recognised that there was someone out there possibly more broken than me.

If I could help fix her, then perhaps there was hope for me.

As the Underground network flew by, I let Alice's parting words consume my thoughts.

_. . . He keeps his promises._

* * *

**A/N: Intrigued? **

**As always, I really do appreciate knowing what you think.**

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**Happy Easter,**

**Karry.**


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